


The Road Of Good Intentions

by LadyBookwormWithTeeth



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College AU, F/M, Rumbelle - Freeform, professor belle, student gold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBookwormWithTeeth/pseuds/LadyBookwormWithTeeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU, where Belle is a teacher and Gold is a student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MaddieBonanaFana did the beta, as always.

The intention had been to learn something. Not that Ian had learned much before. His grades in high school had always been, as defined by his teachers more than once, _adequate_. Not enough to earn him much recognition, and surely not enough to earn him a scholarship somewhere far away from the town he hated. To enroll in night classes at the local community college was a last resort. It was not what he wanted, and he doubted it would help him get a better job, but it was all he could do at the moment.

Now, here he was, screwing up everything because he couldn't take his eyes from the professor's skirt.

Whenever Ian thought of college, he thought of middle age men in suits with a nasty disposition, the kind of person who looked down on him. Surely the man who taught “Introduction to English Literature” wouldn't stray much from that preconception.

Instead, he got Miss French, who was as far from middle age as she was from being a snobbish old man.

“Ian Gold?” she had called him on the first class, tilting his name in that sweet Australian accent.

Ian had raised his hand without much enthusiasm.

“And why did you choose Introduction to English Lit as a way to spend your Friday nights?” she asked, implying that he probably had better things to do.

He didn't.

He didn't have a good reason to be there either. Some students had just been accepted into college – _real_ college, not that mockery of education he was stuck with – and wanted to get an early start before next fall. Some had just _left_ college and wanted to add something more to their resumes.

Ian shrugged and answered truthfully, “It was the cheapest course they offered.”

He was still a little bitter that “Introduction to Contracts” was so out of his range. At least then he could pretend that Law School was still a possibility.

The other students snickered with something close to disdain. Apparently, a nineteen-year-old with no future ahead of him was amusing to people with better prospects.

Miss French didn't laugh. She gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Well, I hope it was money well spent and that I live up to your expectations.”

She was nice.

Why did she have to be nice?

If it was just beauty, Ian would be fine with it. The impossibly high heels that shaped all the muscles in her legs. The circle skirts that seemed to float around her, reveling never too much, but always enough. The long line of her neck and the sound of it cracking as she stretched.

If only that was all. Then her classes would be boring, and Ian would spend the next three months staring at her legs and cursing his own stupidity for spending so much money on something useless.

But she was kind. And always welcomed him to class with a smile. And made a point at giving him a compliment every time he did something right, even if it was something stupid, like reading a sonnet from a book.

“That was very good, Mr. Gold. Very well read.”

She made literature fun, and she made him feel like he could do anything.

In less than two weeks of school.

Fucking Miss French.

Ian was stuck with her, and her legs, for the foreseeable future.


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a very hot summer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory dream sequence! Lots of teasing, no satisfaction guaranteed.

Ian hadn't thought the whole thing through. He had nothing better to do on a Friday night, it was true, but to spend it in an old building with no air conditioning and a broken fan was far from ideal. It was early July and the summer was already shaping up to be a nasty one. It had to be at least 90º in that stuffy room, and a dozen students crowded in plastic chairs seemed to make everything worse.

All the women were wearing dresses and the men had ditched their jeans for shorts. Ian was the only one stubborn enough to wear trousers and a shirt because he came directly from work, and his boss would have his head if he ever showed up wearing something so sloppy. Miss French, however, came into the class wearing a jacket and stockings. Within two weeks of class, Ian had already noticed she was the kind of woman who placed vanity above comfort. Tonight, that seemed to be costing her dearly, since her face was red and there was a thin layer of sweat on her brow.

“What a night to be stuck in class, isn't it?” she said.

Everyone laughed.

Ian's lips quirked up, but he didn't join in. Sweat was trickling down his back and he already felt miserable.

“I'm sure everybody would rather be somewhere with functioning A.C. But I've got something great planned for tonight.”

Miss French selected a book from inside her purse and perused for the right page. With her free hand, she improvised a fan with an empty binder and used it to cool herself down. The little bit of wind she produced didn't even mess with her hair, her dark strands sticking to her skin. Giving up the pointless effort, she took a black marker and started writing down on the white board with her delicate handwriting.

Ian tapped his pen on the desk, waiting for her to be done. His classmates were already copying her words down, but Ian had already figured out there was no point in taking notes before she started talking. She never wrote down the important things. Maybe next week he'd come in late, instead of sitting on his ass for ten minutes waiting for her scribbling to be over.

Once her first line was done ( _To drift with every passion till my soul_ ), she stopped and sighed.

“God, this heat is going to kill me.”

Putting the pen down, she collected her long hair with both hands and twirled it up twice, securing it in a tight bun. Shorter strands were still sticking to the back of her neck, but it didn't seem to bother her.

Ian raised his eyes from the empty notebook to look at her nape. He did appreciate the line of her neck, so long and lean, but tonight he felt too miserable to do much more than giving it a passing glance. Perhaps next Friday, if the temperature wasn't so absurd, he'd waste time day dreaming about it, and wondering if she liked to be kissed there.

He had just lowered his eyes again when Miss French let out another groan and put down the pen again.

“For goodness' sake!” she muttered, under her breath, shedding the coat off and hanging it on the back of her chair. Underneath it, her white shirt had long sleeves that she folded up to her elbows.

Another long line of poetry was scribbled on the white board.

 

_Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play_

 

Then her hand stopped again.

Miss French shook her head, probably as fed up with summer as he was. Spending Friday nights introducing bored grown ups to English Literature was very likely not her first choice. There had to be a boyfriend somewhere that she was neglecting, a good looking guy who had a pool and an endless supply of ice tea.

Ian expected her to turn around and announce, looking defeated, “You know what guys, I'm sorry, but this is just too much. For what they're paying me, I might as well be doing this for free, and it is not worth it. Lets just get out of here and enjoy our weekend somewhere cool.”

But she didn't turn around or say another word. She just started unbuttoning her shirt.

Ian blinked a few times, staring at her back. This wasn't right. He was seeing things. She was just undoing her first button, just to feel a little more fresh. And then the second. And then the third. And then the fourth-

By the time she opened her shirt, Ian decided that there was no plausible explanation for what he was seeing and looked around. Surely the rest of the class would be shocked. But everyone else had their eyes either on their own notebooks or the white board. When Miss French folded her shirt over one arm, there was no protest, no shrieks of horror, and Ian was left to wonder if maybe he was imagining the whole thing.

Miss French turned-

Ian gasped and looked down. After the first week of class, he had decided to be respectful and avoid day-dreaming with his teacher, especially if it involved her without her clothes on. He had been more or less successful. Miss French was a good person, and while Ian couldn't help but steal glances at her legs and neckline, she deserved better than to have a horny teenager ogling at her breasts and wasting class time imagining her naked.

He made sure not to look up until she had turned to the board again, thinking it would be safer, but it wasn't. Miss French was not one to wear revealing outfits, and right now there was just too much to look at. Her bare shoulders and the way her back narrowed to a tiny waist, the movement of her bones underneath the skin as she stretched her arm and wrote on the board.

 

_Is it for this that I have given away_

 

He was particularly entranced by the deep line ****on her lower back, and how it stretched down into her skirt, out of sight. He felt the urge to touch it with the tip of his fingers and follow its path, just to see where it would lead him.

When Miss French's free hand unzipped her circle skirt and allowed it to fall to her feet, she didn't stop writing, and Ian didn't look away. Her panties matched the straps of her bra and seemed to be made of the same lace. The dark blue fabric was pulled deep between her cheeks, leaving them completely exposed to his gaze.

“Uhn, Miss French?”

Ian could have sighed with relief. Someone was about to say something. Probably David, he could be quite prude. Or Gaston was going to make another pass on her. He wasn't very subtle about having a crush on their teacher. Wouldn't be the first time he said something that made everybody uncomfortable.

“Is that an A or an O?”

“It's an A.”

“Thanks.”

Ian turned around, perplexed. David was copying everything down and not giving her a second glance. There was no way his classmates weren't seeing this. Yet, he was the only one with eyes the size of saucers.

Ian squirmed in his chair. Miss French seemed to be freshening up quickly, but he felt hotter than ever. His shirt was sticking to his body and there was a heat to his face that he was sure had nothing to do with the weather. He needed a drink of water. No. He needed a cold shower. But how to leave the room quietly? Miss French would probably notice and say something about it. Apparently, she was one of those people who saw nudity as the most natural thing in the world (her and his twelve classmates. What were the odds?). To them, this was just a human body. There was nothing remotely sexual about it.

“Is this making you uncomfortable, Mr. Gold?” she would ask. And then she'd probably notice the bulge in his pants and frown. “This is _very_ inappropriate!”

Twelve students would agree with her. What would he do then?

Better sit down quietly and wait. Only one more hour to go before the break, and then he could sneak out quietly.

God, his mouth felt so dry.

When he cleared his throat, the sound in the quiet room was like thunder and Miss French's head snapped in his direction, her eyes easily finding his.

Without thinking twice, he crossed his legs.

“Are you alright, Mr. Gold?” she asked.

“Fine,” he answered, the sound parched and the word tasting like sand on his tongue.

“You're not writing.”

He cleared his throat again. “I'm waiting for you to be done.”

Her mouth formed a delicate oh, and she gave him a little smirk. “Well, since your hands are free, maybe you'll be able to help me.”

Much to his despair, she made her way to him. She covered the short distance so fast he almost startled. Four clacks of her heels, and there she was, standing in front of him, displaying so freely everything he had been trying to avoid looking at. Ian tried to focus on her navel, but there was no way to ignore her breasts, or the color of her nipples underneath the lace, or the line of her panties-

“Uncross your legs, Mr. Gold.”

Twelve pairs of eyes were on him. He could feel them. They reveled in his hesitation.

“I- What?”

Someone snickered. One of the women. If it was possible, it made him even more red.

“I'm not repeating myself, Mr. Gold.”

Ian lifted his eyes, but lowered them back quickly. She looked so stern. If he didn't do as she told him, there would be consequences.

He uncrossed his legs, keeping his knees together and hoping his desk would block her view of his lap. It probably did, because she was swift to reach for it and pull it up, letting his pen and notebook fall on the floor.

He looked up. She was still staring at him as if ready to devour him whole.

“Keep your eyes down.”

Ian focused on her legs, as if the explanation to this madness could be found there.

“Now spread your knees for me.”

“I-”

“And don't speak,” she warned him.

Ian still opened his mouth, ready to disobey, to challenge her, just to see what she might do. But he closed it as soon as he remembered there were people watching. A dozen students, hanging at the edge of their seats, waiting for Miss French to get fed up with his insubordination and do something about it.

She slipped out of her heel in the same rhythm that he parted his legs. By the time he was done, her foot rested on his seat, between his thighs and dangerously close to his erection. Ian couldn't help but gasp, eliciting another round of laughter from his classmates.

“I don't think he's done this before,” Regina giggled.

“He's a fast learner,” Miss French said, shutting her up. “Pull down my stockings, love.”

Ian looked up her leg, her strong muscles underneath the nylon, the lace finishing the hem half-way up her thigh. Beyond that, the blur of dark blue that was her panties. If he dared to look more attentively, he might see through them and catch a glimpse of her skin.

“I'm waiting.”

Ian blinked and forced himself to look at her knee. He flexed his fingers before taking them up to her stocking. If they saw him shaking, he'd never hear the end of it. Should he touch her calf, work his way up? No, better just do what she was asking. Without thinking too much, he hooked two fingers to the lace and pulled it down, hoping he wouldn't somehow screw up such a simple task. When he reached her ankle, she pulled her leg up and let it slide out of her feet.

Miss French slipped into her shoe gracefully and offered him the other leg. Ian squeezed the stocking in his hand, crumbled into a ball of fabric, and used his other hand to do as he was told.

“That was very good, love,” she said, once again on top of her heels.

Ian sighed at the sound of that. He had done right. That was a good thing.

Miss French took the stockings from his hand and turned around, offering him a phenomenal view of her ass.

“Undo it for me, love. It is killing me.”

Ian swallowed hard and moved to fumble with the hook on her bra. If it was apparent he had no idea what he was doing (and it probably was), she didn't say a word. When it popped open, Ian was flooded with relief.

Miss French discarded the bra and the stockings on top of her desk and said, “Thank you, Mr. Gold.” And went back to writing her poem down, two fingers hooked to the side of her panties, threatening to pull them down, but never doing so.

When she was done, she took a step back and read it out loud:

 

_To drift with every passion till my soul_

_Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play_

_Is it for this that I have given away_

_Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?_

 

“Isn't it beautiful?” she asked, pulling at her panties, stretching them, making the fabric slip even further into her ass. Ian's heart almost leaped from his chest. She looked over her shoulder. “What do you think, Mr. Gold?”

He swallowed and nodded. From there, he could see the outline of her right breast.

Miss French smiled. “You've been so good.” She started turning, the hand that was playing with her panties finally pulling them down. “I think you've more than earned-”

And that was when his alarm clock went off, forcing him to wake up in a nest of sweaty sheets.

Ian blinked to the dark room, disoriented, wondering where did Miss French go, before realizing what had happened and feeling like a fool.

 _A fool covered in sweat and cum and who's going to be late for work_.

“Shit,” he said, eying the alarm clock as if ready to beat it to pieces with a baseball bat.

He needed a shower.

A _thorough_ shower.

A thorough shower and he would _not_ think about Miss French during it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Belle writes on the board is the first part of "Helas!" by Oscar Wilde.


End file.
